Realizations
by j'ecrive.en.anglais
Summary: <html><head></head>John/Sherlock; how each character reacts when they find out. So far; Sherlock, Anderson, not!Anthea, Mycroft, Harry, John's mum, Molly, Lestrade, and 2 receptionists at the clinic.</html>
1. Sherlock

**A/N: This is basically shameless fluff. I wanted a series in which we get to see each character when they find out about John and Sherlock. I'm not sure how many I'll do, but I've got a few more planned. This one is (obviously) about Sherlock, and it's from his POV. Also, I think they will all be in chronological order. Happy reading!**

Sherlock wondered that he hadn't seen it before. In retrospect, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to do so. His business was observation. Nevertheless, (he rationalized), it wasn't really his fault. He was used to observing the world, yes, but he wasn't used to turning that highly-refined skill inwards on himself. And as a sociopath, he hadn't expected to find himself doing something as… as human as falling in love.

Falling in love. Even the phrasing was distasteful. It implied losing control, something Sherlock almost never did. He kept a very tight watch on his emotions, lest they distract from vital intellectual pursuits.

It would be unthinkable for him to give up control of his actions, or to be unable to control his own thoughts. But then, wasn't that what had already happened? Sherlock _used_ to have perfect focus. But now, he could be in the middle of a case, and still get distracted, wondering what John was doing, what he was thinking. John could sit food in front of him, and he would eat it. Even though he knew it would slow him down and obscure his thoughts.

Oddly, thinking of the things John made him do didn't make him feel resentful. Perhaps then there was a difference between losing control and giving it away. And perhaps that's what love was. Someone else having control over you and you not minding. It was rather fitting that it had taken an ex-soldier to breach his defenses.

Except no, that could be quite it. Because Mycroft had a rather unfortunately large amount of control over him, and he hated every second of it. Even though he supposed he loved his brother.

But then, he'd always knew he loved Mycroft. It was undoubtedly there, although often obscured by anger and resentment. But his feelings for John, or at least his realization of them had come on rather quickly over the course of the evening.

Or rather, yesterday evening, he thought, glancing at the clock. In his opinion, 3AM was the best time to think. Less chance of interruption. Lestrade never called before five, and Mycroft preferred to text in the middle of the night. Or at least, he had ever since John had almost shot the man he'd sent to speak with them. Combat reflexes, and all that.

John was, of course, asleep upstairs. Sherlock didn't blame him. Aside from it being what even a nocturnal insomniac would call a late hour, John had had a singularly bad day.

Sherlock remembered uncomfortably the moment when he'd first seen John drugged and tied to a chair. At least the crossbow hadn't been pointed at him. If it had been, Sherlock wasn't sure what he would have done.

The thought of his flatmate dying was painful. Before this evening, Sherlock hadn't known that thoughts could be so. But when he considered John being gone forever, he went slightly hot and cold at the same time, and felt vaguely sick.

It was a novel sensation. Sherlock catalogued it carefully, and stored it away in the section of his mind where he kept that sort of thing. He'd added more to that particular catalogue in the weeks he'd known John than in the five- no, in the ten years preceeding their meeting.

There had been the odd leap of joy when John had agreed to come on that first case, and again in the cab when John had deemed him, or at least his deductive skills, brilliant. That should have been a clue he supposed- both John's atypical response, and his own oddly strong reaction. But of course he hadn't been thinking about love back then.

There was the exasperation he felt when John disturbed his experiments, but not the cold frustration he felt towards Mycroft or Anderson. It was a warm feeling, which made him feel surprisingly willing to accept John's stammered apologies. Not least because John wasthe only person who ever othered apologize to Sherlock.

Then there was the oddly contented feeling he got whenever John returned to the flat. And, to contrast, the slight emptiness when John was off at work. Sherlock had managed on his own for years before moving in with the doctor, but the thought of not having John as his flatmate left him with the strong desire to prevent that possible turn of events.

John was just so _fascinating_. He'd shot a man for Sherlock on their very first case, and yet he would refuse to let him leave experiments lying about. He would occasionally shoot Sherlock a look when he thought the detective wasn't watching (which was absurd, because Sherlock was always paying attention to John), the sort of look which he had seen his father give his mother on a very rare occasion. But then he would go out on a date with Sarah, and the flat would feel so cold and empty that Sherlock would take any opportunity to leave.

Sarah. Ah yes, Sarah. Sherlock had always had an irrational dislike of the girl, although he had rather figured out the reasons for _that_ by now. She took up John's time, time that would be better spent with Sherlock and the cases they worked on together now.

He was surprised to find a twinge of jealousy inside himself as well. He wasn't quite sure what he had to be jealous about. He spent more time with John than Sarah did, to be sure. And he certainly knew the doctor far better than she.

He thought back to the circus, before he had snuck backstage. He had stood behind them, ostensibly focused on the case. They had been huddled together for warmth, hands clasped between them.

Ah. Sherlock found that he wished _he_ had been the one holding hands with John. Wanted to be able to say that they belonged to each other. He wanted exclusive rights to John Watson. And…

…all right, he wanted exclusive rights to _all_ of John Watson. He wasn't an asexual, after all. He wanted (sometimes rather too much) to slide his hands under John's shirt, and to run his fingers on John's hair, and to discover what John's lips tasted like…

Sherlock terminated that train of thought before it got too distracting. He had known that John was attractive to him even before tonight, although he'd ignored it. He had so much practice suppressing his libido that he didn't even have to try to ignore that sort of thought.

Besides, it wasn't (just) John's body that he wanted. It was his sweaters, and his tea, and his limp, and his laugh, and the way he complained about the body parts in the fridge but never actually did anything about it, and the way he would drop everything and come whenever Sherlock said it was important, no questions asked, and how he always put everyone else before himself…

All right, so Sherlock was in love with him. Now what?

He wasn't exactly clear on what his next step ought to be. He'd never dated anyone. Casual shags, yes, a standing arrangement with a Spaniard on exchange, but nothing where he actually cared about the other person.

Although, even if he did decide the best course of action was to declare his affections, which he could honestly never imagine himself doing, there were a few problems in the way.

Sarah, for one. He could tell that she wasn't going to last, that despite their shared profession, they were too different to be truly compatible. But he certainly couldn't do anything until that had run its course.

And of course, there was John's sexuality to contend with. John was straight, or at least he thought so. Sherlock, observant as he was, had come to the conclusion that John must be bisexual, although he had extremely discerning taste in men. Besides himself, he'd only caught John looking at a man unduly once. And that could have been because the man in question had been a certain famous actor they'd passed on a chase, and everyone had exceptions to their rules.

But Sherlock didn't know how well John would react to anything overt. John's unpredictability, normally fascinating, was proving to be a frustration.

Sherlock considered. It did go quite against his nature, but he could just wait awhile. See how things went, adjust his actions as the situation called. He hated waiting, but he had a wonderful distraction living with him that went a long way in making up for that. Besides, John was worth waiting for.

Satisfied, he returned his full attention to the task at hand. Well, almost his full attention. He may be a sociopath, but he was still (sometimes unwillingly) a human being, with the faults that entails.

Though throughout his entire internal discussion and subsequent epiphany, his hand had never once shook or faltered, and he had eye-droppered out his specimens impeccably. In love or not, he was still Sherlock Holmes.

He hoped John knew what he had gotten into.

He suspected that he did, and didn't care.

His hand remained steady, and his measurements remained sure, but a small smile spread across his face. Love, he decided, wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought.


	2. Anderson

**AN: Oh god. I am very, very sorry. I just sort of disappeared for a while there, didn't I? I'm back, though. Hopefully. I have a bunch of stuff written, and I hope to get it typed out soon. Anyways, here's this. I was going to go for John next, but I just got horribly, horribly stuck, so here's some Anderson. I don't know if it's set in the same 'verse as the other one, but we'll see how it goes. For now… enjoy.**

On an unseasonably warm May afternoon, some six years after John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, the aforementioned doctor was grumbling good-naturedly under his breath as he got out of a black cab at Scotland Yard.

"Says he'll meet me for dinner, and then what does he do? Has me ferrying evidence like the bloody postal service. Maybe I should let him spend the night in a holding cell, see how he likes it. Tosser- sorry, not you." he added, to the affronted looking cabbie. "Didn't expect to spend my wedding anniversary in Scotland Yard, is all."

The cabbies features arranged themselves into what might have been an attempt at sympathetic, although one could never be sure.

"Ar, that's tough, mate. What're they in for?"

John laughed. "Oh, it's not as bad as all that. He just keeps nicking their evidence, and the DI won't let him go to dinner unless I bring it back."

The cabbie didn't seen to know what to say to that, and he handed John his change in silence. As soon as John's hand was clear of the window, the man sped away.

Smiling to himself, John took the stairs two at a time. (No easy feat for a man of his stature.) It wasn't really a _good_ day until he had unsettled someone with his life story. Besides, if he got in and out quick enough, they could still make dinner early enough to catch the closing night of that violin virtuoso- John could never recall her name, but Mycroft had ensured that they had tickets.

His previous good mood fully restored, John strode confidently into New Scotland Yard.

One glance around the main work room showed that the place was operating at rather less than full efficiency. There were a group of people picking papers off the floor, a man in a ripped suit jacket and large bow tie shouting into a phone, and the distinct smell of smoke emanating from… somewhere.

After living with Sherlock for six years and being married to him for one, John had rather developed a sixth sense towards disasters. There was a certain feeling he got, whenever things had gone/were going/were about to go for a bizarre turn, and it was all Sherlock's fault. And he was certainly experiencing it right now.

"You!"

John turned. Anderson was stalking towards him.

"They sent me to fetch you."

His stiff posture, the heaviness of each footstep and the sneer on his face made it rather clear how little Anderson enjoyed being sent to fetch people.

"Your _boyfriend_ is in Gregson's office. They locked him up in there after he set fire to Dimmock's."

John tried valiantly to hide a grin, but Anderson's deepening frown signaled that he might not have quite succeeded.

"Lead on, then." John said.

They left the main open area, and John followed Anderson down a twisty corridor with rather unpleasant carpet. It wasn't the widest, and John and Anderson had to plaster themselves against a wall to let someone carrying boxes through. It wasn't until they were past that John recognized the long dark hair that was unmistakably Sally Donovan's.

"Oh, it's you! Thank god. Lestrade won't stop moaning about how much it's going to cost to replace Dimmock's desk."

John laughed. "Don't worry, I'll get the menace off your hands."

"Thank god for that." She said, shifting the boxes she was holding so as not to drop them. She turned to leave, but paused. "It's the tenth, isn't it?"

Anderson pulled out his phone, and flipped it open. "All day."

"Happy Anniversary, John." Sally said. "You are a saint, you know that?"

She had stopped calling Sherlock the freak when John asked her not to five and a half years ago, but she still kept her distance from him. They were never destined to be the best of friends; Sherlock still made derisive comments about her job-related abilities, and Sally still muttered about him never being able to relate to normal people. Still, they co-existed peacefully, and John had even invited her to the wedding, (over Sherlock's protests.) She politely declined, of course, but she made it clear to John how much she thought Sherlock had been improved by the doctor's presence in his life.

"Thanks, Sally. That means a lot."

Sally nodded, and then continued on her way down the hall. Anderson looked confused, not that that was any different from always.

"Anniversary?" He said, his voice going up at the end to indicate a question.

John wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.

"Yes?"

"But… the anniversary of what?"

John was rather at a loss. Perhaps Anderson had just forgotten the date?

"It's my wedding anniversary, Anderson."

Anderson paused, nodded, and took a few steps down the hall before stopping.

"You're married?"

Mutely, John fished the chain holding his wedding band out from underneath his shirt, and he held it up for Anderson to examine.

Anderson looked rather as lost as John felt.

"But… to who?"

John suppressed the urge to correct his grammar, and just stared. Sherlock went on regular tirades about how singularly unobservant Anderson was, but as Anderson had managed to hold down the job of Forensic Investigator for some ten years, John had never taken him seriously. How could it be that John and Sherlock had been married a whole year, and Anderson hadn't once clued in?

"We'd better hurry." John said finally. "Lestrade sounds like he's at wit's end."

Anderson nodded, and hurried down the hall. John followed, shaking his head.

Rounding a corner, John looked past Anderson to see a weary DI Lestrade sitting on the floor, his back against the door of an office.

"John!" he called, and John had not heard that much gratitude in a single syllable since he had been saving lives in Afghanistan.

"Oh thank god." Lestrade continued. "He's gone quiet, and I have no idea what he's up to in there. I just hope he's not destroying more property. Have you heard what happened to Dimmock's desk? These have been the worst forty five minutes of my life."

John reached into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out an evidence bag containing a battered gold pocketwatch. Anderson immediately snatched it from his hand.

"Thank you, John." Lestrade said again. "I can only imagine where we would be if we didn't have you to reason with him." Fumbling with his keys, Lestrade unlocked the door, and swung it open. None of the three men outside the room were quite prepared for what lay within it.

Sherlock Holmes sat cross-legged on the desk in the middle of the room. At first glance, one might wonder why he wasn't standing on the floor. But then one would realize that the whole floor, except for the sweep of the door, was covered in a raft of pointy paper cups that had been filled with water and stapled together.

"Holmes-!" Lestrade bit out.

"Hello, Inspector, John." Sherlock said, unfolding himself off the desk and leaping to the clear space near the door. "I found myself rather at loose ends, so I devised a way to amuse myself, without destroying property. Aren't you _pleased_?"

John reflected that people being at a loss for words was swiftly becoming the theme of the day.

"Because you let me out, I suppose that John must have brought you the watch. Can we leave now, or do you have any more dull questions?"

"How- Sherlock, there isn't a tap in there!" Lestrade said.

"Don't be dull, inspector."

Lestrade raked his hand through his hair. "Just… just go. I'll text you tomorrow. I can't deal with you any sooner than that. Oh, and happy anniversary, John." He paused, and glared at Sherlock. "Happy anniversary to you both, I suppose."

John had been watching Anderson, hoping to see his reaction when someone finally mentioned it that, in fact, Sherlock and John had been married for the past year. He was not disappointed.

"Wait, wait, wait." Anderson said. "He," and he pointed at John, "is married to _him_?" he asked, pointing at Sherlock.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "What?" he asked weakly.

"Just because we can keep out hands off each other in public…" John said, but Sherlock cut in.

"Remember the Riddle case?"

"Okay, but that wasn't really public…"

"Or that time with the Russians."

"Sherlock, that was hardly our fault."

"And the time in Barcelona?"

"No one expects the Spanish inquisition!"

"The case with the six fingered man?"

"Okay." John conceded. "So we can't keep our hands off each other in public."

"Anderson," Lestrade began, "You've referred to them as boyfriends for the past six years."

"Well, I didn't know they were dating, did I? I was just trying to annoy them!"

"Yes, very annoying to be accused of dating my husband." Sherlock said. "Lestrade, might I renew my recommendation to hire a semi-competent forensic investigator? I happen to know a two-year-old who would certainly be an improvement."

"Sherlock, we'd better go. We'll be late for the concert."

"Of course, my dear Watson. Lestrade, I'll be by tomorrow about the Thompson case. I have reason to believe it should be reopened."

He took John's hand, and they strode off down the hall together.

"Holmes! What am I supposed to do about this office?" came Lestrade's voice from around the corner.

"Use your brain, Greg. It's not that difficult!" Sherlock called back.

Once he was sure they were far enough away from the DI, John dropped Sherlock's hand, leaned against a wall, and dissolved into the laughter that he had been suppressing for the past few minutes. Sherlock smiled broadly at him.

"I… can't… god. I can't believe Anderson." John gasped, when he could finally talk again.

"Yes, well, we'd better go before he realizes I swapped the watches. I've been looking forwards to this date, and I don't want to spend it in police custody."

John shook his head. "You're a mad bastard, you know that?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "I love you too, John."

They made it out before Lestrade initiated the lockdown. But only barely.


	3. Not Anthea

**A/N: My mother is mad, and she took away my notebook. Which is a pity, because I'm about halfway through one of these for an oc that I haven't introduced yet. Ah well. I probably won't be able to update for a while, because of homework and exams and all that necessary yet infuriating stuff that makes up what is known as 'real life'. Here's a little something to tide you over, I guess.**

"…so if you would please remind President Adams that he must stop referring to our dear queen as 'Old Bessy', that would be wonderful."

Anthea nodded, not looking up from her Blackberry.

"Oh, and could you get Renfrew to deliver a four thirteen to my dear brother's abode?" Mycroft continued. "And tell him to get it engraved with the initials JW, please. My brother and Doctor Watson have recently become… romantically involved, and I think I ought to send them a gift as congratulations. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Very good, Mr. Holmes." Anthea said, still not looking up from her Blackberry. Doing Mycroft's bidding was of course a large part of her job, but if she let his Farmville crops wither, she'd never hear the end of it.


	4. Mycroft

**A/N: Hello wonderful people! I'm not sure where this came from. I had the first bit and the last bit echoing through my head for days, and then when I got writing the rest just sort of happened. (I love it when that happens.) I really ought to be studying for exams for the next week, so updates'll be spotty to nonexistent until then. Allons-y!**

The room is in tableau. A steel filing cabinet, a window (firmly shut), an avant garde painting were sketched into the scene in broad strokes of mauve and grey; they serve only to draw one's eye to the main piece.

A desk. On it, a bottle of champagne that cost more than the GDP of several small African nations, cork removed. Beside it, a small tumbler filled to the brim with the amber liquid. A small indulgence for a very important man after a very long day.

In the centre of the desk, placed carefully so its sides are perfectly parallel to the lines of the desk, lies a manilla folder. It is mis-labeled 'Punch Card Procedures'. On top of it, a neat pile of papers entitled 'Surveillance Report'. The top sheet lies askew and upside down a few centimetres away, where it has slipped from the frozen fingers of the man who had been reading it.

When Mycroft Holmes had been a small child, he had had a tendency to shut down and become unresponsive to any and all external stimuli. Not all the time, you understand. When he learned something new and important, something that he would have to think hard about to assimilate it into his mental picture of the world, something he would have to apply to all vague chains of logic swirling through his mind, it would happen. Or when one of his predictions went badly wrong, he would have to pause and re-evaluate all the deductions that had brought him to the erroneous conclusion, and pick out which were faulty, and why, and how he could avoid errors of this sort in the future.

His physical needs would simply fade away and become irrelevant. He had, the day he realized that adults were quite often wrong, stood on one foot in the upstairs bathroom for several hours simply reveling in the possibilities. And when his father had explained the concept of government to him one morning over the breakfast table, well, he hadn't noticed at all when his mother finally took the sandwich out of his hand and the plate from beneath his nose.

It wasn't until he was six that he realized other people were unsettled by this habit. His mother was always accommodating, and his father never deigned to notice such things. But one day, when he was sitting a tree in the garden reading _On The Origin of Species_ (and it hadn't been an easy task, getting a book that size up into the tree with him), he overheard a maid complaining to a gardener about how "that boy just wasn't right".

The maid had been fired three days later for raiding the liquor cabinet, of course, and the gardener four days following that in an obviously unrelated incident. But ever after, Mycroft had suppressed his habit, waiting until he was sure he was alone before retreating into his own mind. His mother never said anything about it, but he could tell she was relieved. At the age of eight, he began periodically putting himself on diets, and then taking himself off of them, just to heighten his physical awareness. He spent less of his thinking time alone and unmoving, and more of it climbing trees in the garden, or walking around town.

It had all worked. There was so little now that could trigger his mental retreat that it had been years since he had frozen up and forgotten himself. Not since his father's death ten years ago had he reverted to his old behavior.

The abandoned page lay face-up, and if anyone was in the office with Mycroft, they could easily read what was written on it.

_19.38 23/01: Sherlock Holmes ran out of 221 Baker Street, and hailed a cab. John Watson followed a few seconds later, bringing Holmes his coat. Both seemed pleased by this. Watson kissed Holmes goodbye, and then returned to 221 Baker Street. Holmes got in a cab, and proceeded to..._

When Mycroft was seven, he was introduced to his new little brother. He was surprised at the emotions it raised in him, particularly one for which he did not have a name. When Sherlock had been put to bed, Mycroft went to the library, and found a large book on psychology so as to better analyze that which he felt. The term protectiveness, he decided, fit the best. And so he decided that he would be the best big brother there ever had been. He would watch little Sherlock, and help him grow up, and teach him everything he would ever need to know.

Perhaps, if his little brother had been anyone besides Sherlock, this plan would have gone quite well indeed.

By the time Sherlock had reached his first birthday, he could insult people in English, French, Arabic, Latin, and German. He did not hesitate to use all of these skills at every possible opportunity. While the staff had whispered amongst themselves when Mycroft was small about how he was strange and abnormal, they had always done this out of his earshot. Now, no one hesitated to mutter under their breath about how Sherlock was 'strange' and 'unfortunate' and 'unsettling', even while the toddler was close enough to hear every word perfectly.

Sherlock, of course, heard their words, and marked them. It had caused him to develop a thick skin, and an incredibly independent attitude. He would accept words of praise or guidance from their mummy only on rare occasions, and Mycroft had all but given up on making his life easier in any way that would require Sherlock to accept him.

Sherlock would never realize this, of course, but it was hard for Mycroft to watch his little brother forging his path all on his own. He knew Sherlock was lonely sometimes, even if Sherlock would never tell him. They were similar enough that Mycroft could see the signs. Still, he tried to make Sherlock's life easier in the ways he could manage. When Carl Powers had tried to get everyone in the Fifth form to gang up on Sherlock, Mycroft had ensured that he was framed for stealing some test papers, and was swiftly booted from their private school.

When Mycroft was twenty four and Sherlock was seventeen, Mycroft bought him a house near Cambridge so he would have somewhere to stay during university. Sherlock set fire to it, and got a room in a tiny flat that he shared with several other students. It was then that Mycroft gave up on them every having an amicable relationship, but he still held out hope that Sherlock would find a friend somewhere in his life.

Sebastian had raised some hopes, but they had been quickly dashed when Sherlock realized what a brainless fool he was, and cut the banker out of his life. Mycroft was ambivalent about that decision; on one hand, Sebastian _was_ a useless idiot. But then, it was hard to see Sherlock drop the one person he might have started to care about.

DI Lestrade was a welcome addition into Sherlock's life. He had helped get the Mycroft's brother off of drugs, which was an automatic recommendation. And he consulted Sherlock, and put up with his dramatic behavior, and Mycroft could have settled for that.

Then Sherlock met Mrs. Hudson, and helped her out for what Mycroft might have called 'the goodness of his heart', except he knew Sherlock better than that. But he thought Sherlock might have been starting to make friends, and he was glad that he could have someone in his life whose presence he didn't simply tolerate.

And then, of course, there was John Watson.

Mycroft thought about John, and wondered. Were their signs he should have seen? He had asked the man about his intentions upon their first meeting, of course, but that was simply a tactic to get him off balance. He hadn't actually meant any of it. And, to be perfectly honest, he had never expected Sherlock to show romantic feelings for anyone. He had sexual experience, sure, but that had just been for experience. Mycroft could know this for sure because he had done the same thing in University.

Perhaps that was it. He knew they weren't shagging, he would have deduced it in an instant from his surveillance footage. Perhaps it was just that John happened to be the first person that Sherlock could really form an emotional connection with. Because he obviously hadn't been seeking out any sort of romantic arrangement, it would take someone he had to spend time with for other reasons, so he would have time to develop an undeniable connection. For example, someone he was forced to flatshare with.

Mycroft had a sudden thought, and pulled his laptop out of the desk drawer. He swept the papers aside (carefully, of course), and booted up the computer. He routed through some on the surveillance files of Scotland Yard, until he found the one he was looking for from a few months ago.

There wasn't any audio, but Sally Donovan was clearly yelling at Sherlock. She was facing the camera, and Mycroft frowned as she clearly mouthed the word "Freak!" at him.

John Watson then entered the frame, and although his back was turned, from the shaking of his shoulders and the expression on Donovan's face it was readily apparent that he was very displeased with her. But Mycroft wasn't really looking at the pair of them. He was looking at his brother, in the other corner of the shot. Sherlock had gone a little stiff when Sally had been berating him, and he looked rather falsely unconcerned. But when John had finally stepped in, a small smile had spread across his face, and he had relaxed, sneaking the odd glance at the doctor. In anyone else, Mycroft would have called these sure signs of romantic attachment. But he had dismissed them as mere friendship. In retrospect, he had been allowing his preconceptions to cloud his vision. He must be sure to not do so again.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. So his brother had finally decided to let someone into his life. Mycroft wasn't going to object, and there were many, many worse people he could have chosen than Doctor John Watson. He would have to send them some sort of congratulatory gift, if only to annoy them. He would get his assistant on that as soon as possible; he knew exactly what to give them.

He downed the drink, before pouring himself another in celebration. He allowed himself a few minutes to revel in exactly how much easier these developments were going to make his life, before returning to work. You didn't get to be the most powerful man in the western hemisphere by taking breaks, after all.

John dashed up the seventeen steps to the flat, and swung open the door.

"I'm home!" he called, unnecessarily.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, glaring at a package sitting on the coffee table. John hung up his coat, and then walked over to give Sherlock a kiss. Sherlock returned it, but without much enthusiasm. Clearly, the mysterious package was thoroughly irritating him.

"What's this, then?" John asked, sitting down beside Sherlock.

"It's from Mycroft." Sherlock said. "It's supposedly to congratulate us."

John raised his eyebrows. "Congratulate us? What are we supposed to have done?"

Sherlock gave him his best 'don't be an idiot' expression. "On pursuing a romantic relationship, John. I suspect he's quite pleased."

John grimaced. "Really? Is that normal?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft doesn't care all that much about what's normal, John."

John swallowed. "Right. Can I open it?"

"It's addressed to you."

"I- really? Okay, then. Will it explode?"

"I doubt it, as it's clearly an umbrella. You can tell by the shape of the case."

John did a double take. "Wait. Your brother wants to congratulate us on having... whatever we're having by giving me an umbrella? His trademark? Isn't that kind of weird?"

"Again, John. Mycroft doesn't actually care about what's normal."

"One thing you two share, then." John said. He grabbed the case, and snapped it open. Inside, there lay a very expensive looking black umbrella. He pulled it out and opened it up.

"It's really quite nice, Sherlock. Except the handle's rather odd."

"That's because it's actually a sword."

John nearly dropped it. "What?"

Sherlock took it from John, and pressed a button on the handle. The fabric of the umbrella pulled away, and Sherlock slid it off. He was left holding a frankly dangerous looking rapier, which he returned to John.

John practically grabbed it from his hands. He stood up, and started posturing wildly among the flat. He cut through the air with wild slashes, while Sherlock watched him, amused.

"Your form is frankly terrible." Sherlock said, from his safe vantage point of the couch.

"Don't worry about that." John replied. "I will most definitely learn." He turned, and brandished the sword at the skull.

"Excuse me," he asked it, "But you wouldn't happen to have six fingers on your right hand?"

"I can assure you, he didn't." Sherlock said. "And we really should get rid of it. We don't want to encourage my insufferable brother."

John looked as though Sherlock had tried to hit him. He held the sword behind his back, as if to shield it.

"You get rid of the sword and I will sleep upstairs for a month."

Sherlock's horrified expression decided it.

Three months later, on the first rainy day of the year, Lestrade and company responded to one of Sherlock's phone calls only to find John holding three would-be burglars at sword point in an abandoned parking lot.

Mycroft saved the surveillance footage on his computer in an unlabeled folder, and emailed it to Sherlock for his next birthday.


	5. Harry

**A/N: Dammit, I need to stop disappearing so much. I keep getting stuck in the middle of these. I got three-quarters finished Lestrade's, and then I realized it was very bad and I shouldn't post it. But here's Harry, at any rate. Enjoy if you so choose. (They're getting longer and longer, too. Odd.)**

Sherlock and John had been together for just over a month. They weren't perfect, but then, nothing was. Sherlock still forgot that people who were not John had feelings, and John still got mad at him for it. But John was smiling more often, and his limp had not returned once. Sherlock determined that John was very happy with their current arrangements, and if he wasn't displaying it in outward changes, it was only because so little had changed with the- the deepening of their relationship that the many differences they had wrought in each other's lives were finished months ago. They had already fit themselves together, rearranged their lives around one another so completely that the progression to a sexual relationship was a mere detail.

Sherlock was incandescently happy. He had never imagined needing someone this much, wanting to be near John and to keep him safe and thinking about him nearly all the time. Indeed, if someone had suggested it to him just a few years ago, he would have reacted with revulsion. Come to think of it, he still would. The thought of depending on someone who was not John was unimaginable as always. But John was not just someone, John was everyone. He fit exactly in Sherlock's heart, leaving no room for anyone else.

Sherlock wanted to shout it to the rooftops. He wanted everyone to know that John was his, that John had chosen him, that he would never have to share. He had wanted that before he had truly realized it. It was why he had never objected to them being referred to as a couple, just as how John would always deny it. John had explained that that had probably been because it had felt to him like they were rubbing it, that he would never get Sherlock, so it was fine.

Now that it really was true, though, Sherlock didn't want anyone to have to make assumptions. He wanted there to be no doubt in their minds that he and John came as a unit now, that you could no longer have one without the other (and even the idea of that gave Sherlock a little thrill).

But John didn't seem to want that, and Sherlock had didn't know why. He hadn't said a thing on his blog, and Sherlock had first thought that he hadn't wanted all his army mates to know that he was with a man. But that couldn't be it, because he had mentioned it in emails and phone calls to a few of his army mates, and none of them had seemed particularly bothered. Which made sense, because Sherlock couldn't imagine John hanging around with the sort of people who would be, they would just clash on such a fundamental level.

And John hadn't seemed to be bothered by the Yard knowing. Lestrade… well, Lestrade finding out had been an accident, but John didn't seem to be embarrassed by the DI knowing, just by the circumstances in which it happened. Of course, the whole Yard had found out the day when- well, Anderson hadn't been there, but someone must have told him. John seemed just as comfortable at crime scenes as he had been before.

And even in public, surrounded by strangers, John would want to hold his hand. The only times he would shy away from Sherlock, make sure they were standing at a respectable distance was when they ran into one of his old friends. Not from the army, not from uni, but from his youth. They had happened upon his old neighbor in the Piccadilly tube station, and John had introduced Sherlock as his colleague. Sherlock had gone with it, of course, but he wasn't sure why it had happened in the first place.

Or a few days before, when John had gone out drinking with his uncle who was in town for a business deal. Sherlock had let him have a few hours with the man, and then gone to fetch John so they could interrogate a suspicious nanny. Sherlock had entered the bar, and he had started to reach down for John's lapel, so he could pull him up and kiss him before stealing him away. But John had raised a single finger at him. Not enough to be noticed by most people, but Sherlock was hardly most people. So instead he had brusquely told John that they needed to go, and then waited for him outside. John had made up for it by snogging him in the cab, but Sherlock had wondered.

In retrospect, he should have worked out what was going on right away. If it had been anyone else, he would have in an instant. But John was his one blind spot.

They were in Tescos. John being in Tescos wasn't out of the ordinary, but Sherlock being there definitely was. They had just finished a case, left a crime scene just down the road, and John had insisted that they needed. Sherlock had protested ineffectively, and now he was sulking by the bananas.

It seemed only fitting that on the rare occasion that was getting Sherlock into a grocery store, strange things would happen. And, sure enough, a distracted woman walked into the store that could be none other than John's sister Harry. Sherlock watched as she walked through the produce aisle. He let her walk right by him, and of course she had no idea who he was, having never seen a picture of or met John's sociopathic flatmate. Judging by the hurry she was in, and fact that John was currently stopped in the condiments aisle, Sherlock predicted that they would run into each other in approximately 75 seconds, just in front of the inexplicably massive Kool-Aid display. He positioned himself behind it accordingly.

Seventy-three seconds later, Harry looked up from her grocery list.

"John?" she said?

John turned, startled, from where he had been regarding the large variety of jam. "Harry." he said, with an odd lack of inflection.

"How are you, Johnny-boy?" Harry asked, with a certain amount of something nasty in her voice.

"I'm… I'm well. And you?"

"As good as can be expected, considering. I still miss _Clara,_ but I'm moving on." She said the word Clara with an odd sort of force, and Sherlock could not figure out why. Maybe she blamed the breakup on John? But no, that didn't make sense, or she wouldn't have given him the phone.

"Yes, well, we've all got to do that sometimes." John said, it what was clearly an attempt at a conciliatory tone.

"You're right. I should just move on to someone else, then. Someone more _appropriate_ than her, is that what you want?"

Sherlock was very confused, and he sensed there was a dynamic to this conversation that he was missing completely.

"Appropriate? What do you… I liked Clara! She was nice!"

"How are mum and dad, Johnny? Have you seen them lately?"

"Harry, you-"

"Had a nice little chat with them about how I'm going to hell?"

Harry's voice rose until she was practically shouting the last few words. A little old lady who was looking at the marmite backed away hastily from them.

"Harry, you're making a scene!" John hissed at her.

"Oh yes, that's what you don't want." Harry said, in a quieter but no less venomous tone. "Little Johnny-boy, never wanting anything out of place. Just like our parents. You didn't stand up for me when they kicked me out, you just pretended nothing was happening. Like always."

_Of course._

John looked stricken. "Harry, you know that's not true."

"You've barely even texted me since you were discharged."

"Harry, what would it have done to Mum if I had sided with you? Losing both her children on the same day? It would have killed her, you know it-"

"John, I don't care what excuses you make. You're letting your latent homophobia poison our relationship."

"I'm not homophobic, Harry! You made me choose, and they needed me more! And now you're shutting me out."

Sherlock made a split-second decision. Obviously, John had been reticent because he hadn't wanted his parents to find out that he was in a homosexual relationship. But Sherlock saw no harm in his sister knowing, and perhaps this would help fix whatever had broken between them. That would make John happy, and so it would make Sherlock happier too. Although- why hadn't John told her himself? Perhaps he though she wouldn't believe him. Well, Sherlock was sure he could overcome her doubts.

He backed up a bit, and then loudly walked around the giant Kool-Aid man statue. "I couldn't find the chocolate chips, John." he said, pretending that he hadn't just been eavesdropping. "This place is like a maze, how are you supposed to find anything?"

He walked over to his friend, and deliberately draped his arm over John's shoulder.

"You follow the signs, Sherlock. It's really not that difficult, once you practice." John said.

"You would know." Sherlock said, giving John's shoulders an unnecessary squeeze. "You must be Harry." he added. "I'm Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. John's partner."

He relished the surprise on Harry's face, and the amusement mixed with exasperation on John's. John was reluctantly enjoying this, although Sherlock wasn't sure if he would get another chat about boundaries later or not. Somehow, outing your boyfriend to his sister seemed like something most people wouldn't do, although given that said sister was a lesbian herself it wasn't as much of an issue.

"I'm sorry?" Harry said, after a pause to collect her thoughts.

"Ah, yes. He hasn't said. Well, I'm a sociopath with no understanding of how to relate to normal people. Can't imagine why he wouldn't want everyone to know." Sherlock said with a smile.

"Sherlock! Don't say that. He's awful, isn't he?" John said to Harry, rolling his eyes.

Harry frowned. "You're shamming."

John raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"You're trying to convince me you're not homophobic, so you're making this bloke pretend to be your boyfriend."

Sherlock really couldn't understand how normal people could do anything in their tiny, tiny brains. A plan like that was simply ludicrous.

"Harry, that doesn't make any sense." John said, confirming his status as the smartest person Sherlock knew, with a possibly exception of his infuriating brother.

"I don't care. Prove it."

Sherlock grinned. "With pleasure, Miss Watson." He leaned down, and captured John's lips with his own.

Obviously, most of his attention was taken up with the exquisite sensation that was John's tongue pressed up against his. But he was also aware of Harry's eyes widening as they held the kiss, as John sat down the basket and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He also saw the old woman who had been looking for marmite _(77, her husband was in a nursing home and she was stopping here on her way home because she didn't want to have to see her son)_ come down the aisle again, and then leave just as quickly when she noticed John and Sherlock. There was a 63% chance that she would try again in a few minutes, if she didn't just decide it wasn't worth it.

Twenty-seven seconds later, John pulled away. Sherlock made an irritated noise in his throat, but he allowed it. John left his other hand on Sherlock's arse, so at least there was that.

Harry's shopping list was sitting by her feet, where she'd dropped it.

"That… was hot." she said incredulously. "I mean, you're my brother, and I don't even like men. But- damn. All right, I believe you. But why, John? Why didn't you tell me?"

John extricated himself from Sherlock, and reached down to pick up the basket. He grabbed Harry's list, too, and handed it to her.

"I'll go get the oatmeal." Sherlock said, deducing that perhaps the two siblings would talk more frankly without him there. Besides, it wasn't as though he wouldn't listen in anyways. He hurried down another aisle, and stopped when he was out of their range of visibility. He picked up the nearest package (stewed beans, disgusting) and pretended to be reading the nutrition information (horribly bad for you) as he eavesdropped.

"I tried." John said. "Harry, I tried. I missed you, but you wouldn't believe me."

"But you never even told me you were gay! I could have kept it a secret, if I could have just told you I wouldn't have needed to tell mum. If I had known you were there for me, I wouldn't have needed to out myself."

"Harry…" John said pleadingly. "Harry, I didn't even know myself. Not until Sherlock came along."

"Is that why you sided with mum? You didn't say a word when they kicked me out, John. Not a word. And that hurt the worst, because I had expected it from them, but I hadn't expected it from you."

"No! Harry, I've always regretted standing by. If I could do it over again… but you know that. I've always hoped you can forgive me, but I can understand if you can't."

Sherlock cocked his head. So Harry had come out of the closet to their parents, and they had kicked her out of the house. John had decided that his parents needed him more than Harry had, and had consequently not taken Harry's side. He had tried to apologize to her, but she would have none of it. Then he had gone to Afghanistan, and when he came back she had given him the phone as an attempt at reconciliation. But it had been so long, neither knew what to say to the other. John had chosen not to tell Harry about Sherlock because he wasn't sure how she would react, given all the misconceptions she had about his prejudices.

It explained why John rarely spoke about his parents. He visited them often enough, although not overly often for a man of his demographic. But he avoided the subject, never bringing it up unless it was so Sherlock could factor his visits into his plans. Like he enjoyed visiting them, but there was some sort of bad taste in his mouth about the whole thing… obvious, in retrospect.

"Look, John, we need to talk." Harry said finally. "I can't just forget you choose our parents over me. But maybe I understand why you did it, a little. I've gotta run, but maybe I can come over for tea sometime?"

"Yeah, that'd be good. Although we should just go out. Sherlock's got our flat filled with biohazards that he calls experiments. There's always a danger that he's filled the teabags with cyanide."

Sherlock made an affronted noise. Filling the flat with important experiments was one thing, but he would never mess with John's tea.

"Okay, then. You have my number." Harry said. "And don't think you're going to get out of sharing all the details about him."

Sherlock realized to his horror that the him she referred to was, in fact, _him_. That was an unexpected development. Would he ever be able to predict Watsons?

"Don't tempt me." John said.

"I'll see you around, then. I've got to dash, I have an appointment in a few minutes."

Sherlock heard Harry's footsteps receding into the distance, and then saw John coming around the corner.

"You need to work on pretending that you're not eavesdropping." John said matter-of-factly. "And a man your height can not hide behind a Kool-Aid display that comes up to your shoulder."

"She doesn't really have an appointment." Sherlock said, falling into step beside John. "She wanted to go collect herself before talking to you again. She's missed you quite a bit."

"Really?" John asked.

"Of course. I gather you two were good friends in childhood, and your perceived slight hurt her. Even if she had other friends to fall back upon, you were her brother. Shutting you out cost her more than she would like to admit."

John sighed. "Do you think I did the right thing, Sherlock? Siding with our parents? Mum would have had a heart attack if I had. She's still so lonely up in Brighton, and I don't know who she spends time with when I'm not visiting."

"John. You're asking me about doing the right thing?"

John snorted. "I guess you've got a point."

"If you hadn't, you would still be on good terms with your sister. When you returned from Afghanistan, you would have stayed at her flat until you could find one of your own. You wouldn't have needed a flat share, and we likely never would have met."

"You're right." John said, emptying his basket onto the conveyor belt. "At least there's that."

He paid for their groceries, and the two of them left the store. John was clearly thinking, and Sherlock didn't interrupt.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John said finally. "I think you did the right thing."

"I'm getting better at that, aren't I?"

"Yes. You are."


	6. John's Mum

**This took forever to write. Sorry, folks. I've had a bad few weeks. Also, please be warned that there is at least one gay slur in the chapter that follows. I absolutely do not condone the use of such words, but unfortunately you can't force tolerance on people. I'm not sure if Sherlock is in character here, and it hasn't been beta'd or britpicked, so read at your own risk.**

**If you want to know how John got hurt, read the companion story, Sirens, Rubbish Skips, and Love. That being said, enjoy.**

"You're- what? You're on the train? That's really not necessary- yes, but-"

Sherlock looked up with interest. They had returned from the hospital an hour ago, and John had been relaxing on the couch when his phone rang. Sherlock was in the kitchen, making food for once. He was also surreptitiously keeping an eye on John, who had yelled at him good-naturedly for hovering. He was sure John knew he was still observing him, but was pretending not to notice.

"Two hours? Mum, my flat's a mess- I've just been stabbed, I'm not in the mood to entertain- No, I'm not overly stressed. I don't- fine. Fine, I'll see you in a few hours."

John punched the off button with unnecessary force. Sherlock quickly poured him a cup of tea, and then swept into the living room, and sat down on the couch.

"Your mother's coming for a visit then?" He said, not bothering to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping, when they both knew otherwise.

"Yeah. Thanks." John said, taking the tea. "We need to have a talk, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "About what? She'll only be here for a few days at most, we can manage. We just solved a case, and I'm sure there won't be another one until Tuesday next."

"I'm concerned that you know exactly when you're getting your next case."

"_Our_ next case."

"Yes, well, that's not the point! The point is, my mother is coming to visit!"

"We'll be fine, John. I promise not to conduct any particularly… _violent _experiments, if that's what you're worried about."

John rolled his eyes, and took a sip of tea. "No, that isn't what I was thinking of, although you'd better not explode, set fire to, or otherwise maim my mother. But… she doesn't know we're married, 'Lock. She doesn't even know I'm… well, you know how bad she took it when Harry told her."

"Badly." Sherlock said absently, and John swatted him on the arm.

"Ha bloody ha. This is important, you bastard. I don't want to lie to my mother, but I don't exactly want the row that'll come with me telling her about us! Sherlock, what do we do?"

Sherlock unfolded himself from off the small couch, and stood up.

"I don't know, John." he admitted. "We both know I'm not particularly good with people. That's why I keep you around."

John raised an eyebrow. "That the only reason?"

"Well, that and the thing you do with your tongue…" John blushed. "But no matter. Whatever you decide, I will go along with it."

"Right." John said, and he closed his eyes. "I'll put my ring on the chain round my neck, then, like I do at the clinic. You keep yours on. We're not going to lie, but if we don't have to talk about it, we don't talk about it."

"As you wish."

"We really need to start your pop-culture lessons, don't we?" John said with a slight smile. When Sherlock only looked at him with a confused expression on his face, John laughed. "No matter. We can't do it now anyways, because _you_ need to clean up this horrific flat before my mother gets here."

"Me? Why can't you do it?"

"I just got stabbed in the leg! I'm going to sit right here on the sofa and rest, just as the doctor ordered."

Sherlock glared, but John just smiled innocently.

_tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick_

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, fiddling with the dry goods in the cupboard.

Well, not fiddling. Sherlock Holmes didn't fiddle. He was… _rearranging_ their foodstuffs. Yes, that was it.

It didn't change the fact that he had spent more time in the kitchen that day than he had since the severed head experiment.

Out of eyeshot from the living room, lest he get dragged into an uncomfortable conversation that he would likely screw up at some point.

But close enough to eavesdrop. John interacting with his mother was not something that he got to observe every day.

"So how are you liking your job, John?" Mrs. Watson asked cheerily.

"It's fine. I've been taking more hours lately, what with Sarah off on maternity leave."

"Sarah! Isn't she that nice girl you were dating? Whatever happened there?"

"We broke up years ago mother, I told you."

"Well, are you dating anyone right now? Any nice girl I ought to meet, while I'm in town?"

Sherlock's hand tightened around the package of rice he was holding, though he wasn't sure why.

"No, there've not been any girls for a while. I can't be tied down." John answered, with a slight laugh.

Well, that was true enough. Sherlock didn't see how anyone could describe their lives as 'tied down'. And Mrs. Watson didn't have to know that John's two sentences only related to one another tangentially.

Abruptly, he decided to offer Mrs. Watson some tea. That was what you did for guests, wasn't it? Offered them tea? Sherlock wasn't completely sure. The only guest he ever got was Mycroft, and he usually just threw sharp things at him. But John probably wouldn't appreciate it if Sherlock did that to his mother. Although it _would_ likely make her leave, which would solve their problems. But no, throwing sharp things at her would probably break the promise he made to not injure her. Unless he pretended it was an accident- but John would see through that of course. He wasn't an idiot.

Best behavior it was, then. Sherlock sighed. But best behavior was _boring_.

He found three (mostly) clean mugs, and poured out three cups of tea. He got three sugars, John got a dash of milk, and John's mum- milk and two sugars.

(She had seen John's mug of cold tea on the end table, but had declined to drink it. She had invited herself into their home, so obviously not bothered by social convention. So, she must know John takes his tea differently from her and not like his order. It was unlikely that John took his tea weaker than his mother, as that would have caused him some embarrassment as a teen, even if it was only internal. A sweeter order, then, and as one sugar wouldn't have made difference enough for her to turn down his cup, two sugars. Perhaps three, but Sherlock had yet to meet anyone else who took three sugars in their tea, and this older woman would probably see that as an extravagance.)

Feeling slightly defiant, he put his and John's tea in the matching blue mugs, and gave Mrs. Watson the odd one out that they had got from Donovan three Christmases ago and tended not to use. It had a ridiculous owl on the side of it, and Sherlock thought that Donovan had perhaps bought it as a joke, but he wasn't sure.

He paused, and took a deep breath. Summoning all his acting skills, he plastered a smile on his face, and headed into the living room.

"Hi, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock said brightly. "I'm Sherlock, John's flatmate. I've made you and John some tea."

Mrs. Watson's eyes narrowed. "Thank you." she said briskly, taking the tea. "Would you mind getting me a saucer?"

"Of course, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock said. He handed the cup to John, who nodded in thanks, and then left the room again.

Mrs. Watson said, in what was obviously supposed to be a whisper but had been misjudged due to her failing hearing, "He seems awfully… _feminine_, John. Are you sure you're… you know, all right, living with him?"

Sherlock swore under his breath. Apparently, he had put a little too much 'playing gay' into his friendliness. Although, if John's mum was worried after _that_, perhaps John was more rational than he had previously realized. She was probably scared to leave her house if Sherlock's performance had bothered her that much.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, mum. He's married, if that's what you're asking."

Sherlock grabbed the saucer, and returned to the living room in time to catch the relieved expression on John's mother's face.

"Here you are, Mrs. Watson." he said, and she smiled, first down at his wedding ring, and then back at him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. You can call me Catherine, you know."

He grinned at her, leaning up against the wall beside the mantelpiece. Normally a nearly impossible task, but doable after an hour of forced cleaning. Not worth the effort, in his opinion. But then, when the effort in question was put forth by him, it rarely was.

"You're welcome, Catherine. I trust John has been telling you all my secrets?"

He was careful to put a bit more baritone in his voice than he would have otherwise. Mrs. Watson looked placated, but John glared at him. Why would he- oh.

Well, Sherlock never promised to _not_ inappropriately turn him on in the presence of his mother.

"No, he hasn't. And to be honest, I'd much prefer to hear any of his secrets that you could tell me."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. Why don't we all just sit around, trading embarrassing stories about the invalid?"

Catherine's smile disappeared. "Are you all right, Johnny? Do you need to lie down?"

"I'm fine, mum. This isn't the first time this has happened, remember. I'll just have to dust off the cane for a few weeks, it's not a problem. Like I tried to tell you before you insisted on coming down here." John said, smiling tightly.

"Are you sure? Because I don't want you to make it worse, John. You should rest if you need to."

"I'm sure John's fine, Mrs. Wa- Catherine. But why don't you tell me a bit about John's childhood? I've heard so much about you, but he's been modest as anything about his own achievements." A blatant lie, but if it made her happy…

"You have? Oh, John." she said, smiling over at him. When she looked back at Sherlock, John mouthed 'thank you'.

"Well, where should I start? How about the day I knew John was going to grow up to be a doctor? He was seven, and his sister had…"

_tick tick tick tick tick tick tick_

"…and John cried for a week, and that's when we got Gladstone the second." Catherine continued, but she was cut off by a rap on the door. John half rose to get it, but Sherlock waved him off. He stalked around the couch, and pulled open the door.

"Holmes." Donovan said, without preamble. "I need both your statements. Andrew Darvill is making a stink, and we can't search his house without your testimonies as proof."

"It'll have to wait." Sherlock said, not bothering to maintain his pretense of being nice. "John's mum just showed up, and we can't exactly leave her here alone. She'll poke around and blow something up."

"John's- what?"

"John's mother, Sally. Honestly, how thick are you?"

"Really?" Donovan said. She smirked at him. "Your mother-in-law, eh? Sherlock Holmes' mother-in-law, now that I would pay good money to see."

"You'll do no such thing." Sherlock said. "She doesn't know she's my mother-in-law, and you are not going to be the one who tells her."

"I- what?" Donovan said.

"Kicked John's sister out of the house at fifteen because she's a lesbian. We don't want any trouble."

"Jesus. Okay, fine. But we still need your statements."

"Then we can do it here."

Sally grimaced. "Er, no we can't. Sorry, I've left all the paperwork back at the station."

"When you knew John was injured?"

"Yeah, well, I since haven't slept since ten hours before we- you caught the elusive Mr. Darvill, some slack would be nice."

"I'll see what I can do. "

_tick tick tick tick tick tick_

"John! Good to see you up and about. Terrible business, that. And who's this?"

"My mum." John said. "She's just come for a visit, and we didn't want to leave her in our flat all alone."

"God, no." Lestrade agreed. "That place is probably radioactive. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Watson."

"And you, Detective Inspector."

"I'll just need to borrow your son for a few minutes, and his hus.." he trailed off as Sherlock made a violent throat slashing gesture above her head. Sometimes it helped to be inhumanly tall. "And, er Sherlock. Would you mind waiting out here?"

"Of course not." she said. "I'll just do the crossword, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." Lestrade said, as he all-but-pushed John and Sherlock into the adjoining interrogation room.

"Doesn't know we're married. Violently homophobic." Sherlock said, as soon as the soundproof door swung shut. "Now, can we get on with our statements?"

Lestrade winced. "Ah. Well, call me if it all goes to hell."

"Our _statements,_ Lestrade."

"Right. Sorry."

_tick tick tick tick_

"Look who we have here."

They had almost made it out of the Yard without being given away, but fortune was not on their side when Anderson decided to go on an aimless walk through its corridors.

"Anderson." Sherlock said. "Congratulations. This may, possibly, be the worst time ever for you to show your ferrety face."

"Who have we here?" he said, blatantly disregarding Sherlock's insults. After all these years, that was just their standard greeting.

"My mother." John said.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock added. "She looks just like him. Although, with your observation skills, you would probably overlook the resemblance between a man and his twin."

"I'm Catherine, dear." she said, apparently ignoring Sherlock's acerbic tone. "And you are?"

"Nathan Anderson." he said, and it was disturbing to see him smile while in the same room as Sherlock. "I work with your son's-"

"Right, we've got to go!" John cut in. "Sorry, Anderson, we've got a reservation-"

_tick tick tick_

Dinner at Angelos was delicious, as always. Sherlock found that Catherine really was an interesting woman, once you got to know her. Watsons; they were always so full of surprises.

Billy put the obligatory candle on the table, of course, but Catherine either didn't notice, or didn't catch the significance.

_tick tick_

"So, where am I going to be spending the night?" she asked. John and Sherlock exchanged a look. Clearly, John had forgotten certain necessities, such as not telling her they shared a bedroom. Luckily for him, he had married a consulting detective who had handily thought of everything.

"You can have John's room upstairs, Catherine." Sherlock said. "He's not in any shape to get up there. He can have my bedroom, and I'll take the couch."

Mrs. Watson looked at the couch doubtfully, which was clearly at least a foot and a half shorter than the man proposing to sleep on it.

"I'll be fine." he assured her. "I don't sleep much anyways. But first things first- what are we going to have for dinner?"

_tick_

They were sitting at the miraculously clean table, having breakfast, when finally John snapped.

"I'm done!" he said, slamming his tea down on the table. Catherine looked taken aback. Sherlock had been expecting this a little sooner.

"What on earth has gotten into you, John?" she asked, sitting down her fork.

"I'm done pretending." he said. He reached up to his neck, and fished the chain with his wedding band on it out of his shirt. "Mum, this is my wedding ring."

She gasped. "Johnny? You're married? What- why didn't you tell me? Oh, can I meet her?"

Sherlock, who was sitting off to one side, rolled his eyes, waiting for the penny to drop.

"I believe you've got your pronouns wrong, Mrs. Watson." he said politely. (It was difficult.)

"Pronouns? What? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about Mr. Holmes." she said. She wasn't being facetious; the possibility of John being married to Sherlock had clearly not crossed her mind. Honestly, how could you be that ignorant and survive to your late sixties?

"You could call him Mr. Watson, mother." John said. "Because we were married three years ago. Aren't you happy to meet your son-in-law? I know you've always wanted one."

Dawning realization began to spread across the face that was so much like John's. Not altogether unexpectedly, the shock was quickly chased by disbelief.

"You're having me on, John." she said, and the reaction was so like her daughters that Sherlock was taken aback. Unfortunately, she was unlikely to respond well to the same tactics that Harry had.

"I swear I'm not." John said. "I wouldn't joke about something so important."

"Our marriage license is framed on the wall behind you, if you're interested." Sherlock said, through a mouthful of toast. "And it's sealed by the queen's own chaplain, which is quite difficult to forge."

John's mum stood up, and scrutinized the document on the wall. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket.

_Sorry. JW_

_No need to apologize. As I said before, is your descision. Will support you. I love you. SH_

_Love you too. JW_

John looked up abruptly as his mother turned back to them. The bewilderment on her face was replaced by anger.

"This is all your sister's fault!" she said angrily. "If she hadn't put the idea into your head that this- this _filthy_ lifestyle was okay, you would have settled down with a nice girl by now!"

"Patently not true." Sherlock said, with a bored tone. He wasn't going to bother being likable if she was just going to scream. That was _hardly_ civilized. "It is a proven fact that homosexuality is an inherent trait, not one acquired…" he trailed off when he saw the look John was giving him.

"How could you do this!" she continued. "Bringing me here, into this- this hideaway of sin!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Because, honestly? Hideaway of sin? That was ridiculous phrasing. Even Mycroft had never said anything like that.

It bothered him that John didn't seem to find the humour in it, though. Or that John hadn't responded yet.

"I can't believe you lied to me all these years, John Hamish Watson. You know how wrong this is. I won't stand for it! You are going to move out of here _immediately_, and we are going to fix whatever problems you have that are making your sham of a marriage to this- this _faggot_ seem acceptable!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He heard worse insults than that on a daily basis, and some were even grounded in actual character flaws. She was going to have to try a bit harder than that to get under Sherlock Holmes' skin.

Unfortunately for her, she had. At the other end of the table, John seemed to be shrinking into himself. He wasn't denying any of her preposterous claims, and Sherlock was surprised that he hadn't told her to stuff it yet. Although, perhaps because she was his mother, she was given special consideration? Whatever it was, Sherlock wished John would just tell her to shut up already.

"Don't mistake me, I think you are despicable." she said, and it was ironic that her fury made her resemblance to her son even more striking. "But you are still my son, and I will help- no, I will make you fix this. I just can't understand what possessed you! You are breaking the very laws of nature! I think you know, deep down in your heart that what you're doing is wrong. Maybe you're still just a bad little boy, breaking all the rules just because you think you can get away with it. But some things have consequences, you fool-"

That was it. No one, besides Sherlock, was allowed to call John a fool.

"Excuse me." he said, in a very dangerous tone. "That's my husband you're talking to."

She looked rather taken aback. "Ex-excuse me?"

"You are in our home, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock continued coldly, paying no attention to any signals John may or may not have been giving him. "You will treat us both with respect, or you will- and I'm putting this as politely as I can, at the moment- _get out of my house._"

She stood with her mouth hanging open for a few moments before she gathered herself enough to speak. "I think you'll find," she said frostily, "that I can say whatever I please. And I don't think a- a _homosexual_ like you is going to stop me."

"I think _you'll_ find that I can quite easily order you to stop berating my family in my own home. And if you choose not to obey, I have quite a few police officers on speed dial, not to mention quite a bit of influence in the British government."

John gave a strangled sort of laugh. Catherine looked back and forth between the two men. John wouldn't meet her eyes, but Sherlock gave her the glare that he had perfected after spending thirty two years alone against the stupidity of the world.

"Well." she said finally. "I can see when I'm not wanted. I'll fetch my things, and go home. Just an old widow with no children." She turned on her heel, and left the kitchen.

John looked stricken. "I- god, Sherlock."

Sherlock swept over to sit beside him, in the recently-vacated chair. "Are you all right?" he said, and for once, the tone was not feigned.

"I- yeah, I'm… I have no idea." he said finally. Sherlock smiled.

"Isn't that usually my line?" he said. "And you're supposed to come help me with the illogicality of feelings? I hate to tell you, but I can't help you at all."

John smiled a little back at him. "It'll be okay, Sherlock. We'll be fine."

Sherlock grinned. "No, you've got it all wrong. See, _I _ was supposed to say that bit."

John laughed. "Kiss me, you idiot."

For once, Sherlock did as he was told.

"Absolutely disgusting."

Sherlock pulled back, and was about to make a nasty retort when John grabbed his hand. He looked back at him, and John whispered, "Please don't."

He heard a door slam behind him.

"Why not, John?" he said, a touch impatient. "Did you need to give her the last word?"

"Yes. Because what else has she got? Not a family, not happiness, not even the truth." John said. "And besides, that's hardly the worst we've been called. Remember the bloke at the pizza place?"

"The one whose nose you broke?"

"Yeah, that one."

"God, I love you more than should be allowed." Sherlock said reverently.

John smiled. "S'why you married me, you idiot."


	7. Molly

**A/N: People are actually reading something that I've written? What is this madness? Don't worry, guys, I couldn't end it with that last chapter. Actually, I'm planning on ending it with John, but I've got a few more plans before we get there. Cheers!**

"Afternoon, Molly."

Molly looked up eagerly. "Hi John!" she said brightly. She was wrist deep in the body of an elderly gentleman. "You want the Hummel files, right? Where's Sherlock?"

"Not coming." John said, and Molly's posture slumped slightly. "He's off at the library again. Says he needs more information about Norse mythology, for whatever reason."

"Oh." Molly said. "Well, he won't stay away for long, will he?"

John chuckled. "I couldn't keep him away if I tried. I think he's trying to turn our flat into a morgue, so he can fiddle around with dead things at all hours. It's driving me mad."

Molly pulled her hands out of the cadaver, and wiped them on her apron. "I wouldn't mind, if I were his flatmate." she said. "We could fill our house with bodies, that would be fine with me."

"Believe me; it gets old after you've found eleven fingers in your bedroom."

Molly smiled absently. "John, can I ask you something?"

John pulled out Molly's computer chair, and sat down. "Ask away, Molls."

She walked over to the sink, and started washing her hands. Without looking up from the tap, she said, "Er. Is Sherlock… well… I just… Does he have a girlfriend?"

"I'm sorry?" John asked, amused.

"It's just… I mean, I'm sure you know how I feel, I'm sure most of the Yard knows…"

John certainly wasn't going to contest that. He knew he ought to put the poor girl out of her misery, but he was really enjoying this too much. And he wanted to wait for the right moment for the 'big reveal'.

Christ, he _was_ acting like Sherlock, wasn't he.

"Look, Molly-" he began, but she cut him off.

"I know what you're going to say. I know I have no chance with him. But, well, I have to hope for something, right? You're his best friend. And you definitely know him the best. I just want to know if he's off the market."

John desperately wanted to string her along for a bit, but he just couldn't bring himself to. She'd wasted so much of her time pining over his boyfriend already, it hardly seemed fair to let it go on for any longer than it had to.

"No, he doesn't have a girlfriend. But he is 'off the market', as you said. Actually, he's-"

"Don't tell me he's married!" Molly said.

"No, he's not. Actually, _we're_… involved. Together."

Molly looked at John uncomprehendingly.

"Dating? Sherlock and I are dating, Molly. Molly? Molly! The tap!"

John dashed over to the sink and turned it off, but not in time to stop a stream of water from pouring onto the floor, and soaking Molly's shoes, and his pants.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, John, here, I'll-" she cut herself off to reach over to a pile of towels in the corner. She picked one up, sniffed it, tossed it in a hamper, selected another, and thrust it at John. He returned to his seat, and daubed gingerly at his soaked jeans.

"Oh, your jeans are soaked. Really, I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Molls." John said. "I live with Sherlock, I've seen much worse."

She paused at that. "So him and you… you and he…?"

"Yeah." John answered.

"So you're… er… you're gay, then?"

John looked up. "Problem?"

"No! No, of course not. I just never thought! I mean, you had that girlfriend, and... I'll get you that file, then."

Flustered, Molly left the room. John waited for the door to fully swing shut behind her before he burst out laughing. Poor, oblivious, Molly.

Maybe someday she'd be attracted to a man who _wasn't_ a gay sociopath.

John wasn't going to hold his breath, though.


	8. Lestrade

**A/N: I'm alive. Shocking, I know. To the people who keep asking if I'm going to write John's chapter: I'm planning on finishing off with it, so we have a little ways to go yet. Anyways, enjoy if you so choose.**

_From: Greg Lestrade. To: Sherlock Holmes._

_Room 217, Hilton. Are you coming?_

_From: Sherlock Holmes. To: Greg Lestrade._

_Can't. Busy. SH_

Lestrade frowned. Sherlock turned down cases all the time, it was true. But he'd been hounding the poor Detective Inspector for a week to give him some work, and Lestrade had finally had to resort to bribing him with a few cold cases just to keep him from setting something on fire in the Yard out of boredom. Why on earth was he turning down the locked room triple-homicide of a set of Ukranian triplets that had no business being anywhere on the British Isles? If it was distraction he was looking for, this was surely the best London had to offer at the minute.

"Freak coming, then?" Sally said, having noticed Lestrade fiddling with his phone. "I hate to admit it, but I think we need him on this one."

"Don't say that." Anderson snapped from the corner, where he was taking samples off the carpet. "He gets quite enough praise from that doctor of his; we don't need you joining the almighty cult of Holmes too."

"Heaven forbid." Sally said, rolling her eyes. "His massive ego won't get any inflation from me, if I can help it. But I'd put up with it for a little while just to get a few leads on this case."

"Well, we'll have to do without him today." Lestrade said. "Because he's not coming."

Anderson paused, and then straightened up. "By not coming, do you mean he's definitely not going to be showing up in a few minutes with his fan club of one in tow? Because I'd like to get my facts straight before I disturb a crime scene jumping for joy."

By way of answer, Lestrade held up his phone to show the other two Sherlock's text.

"Busy? What could he possibly be busy with?" Sally asked, echoing Lestrade's thoughts. "Think he's gotten picked up by another murderous cabbie?"

Anderson snorted. "From your lips to God's ears. Although, my luck, Watson'll just shoot this one before they get him. Lestrade, remind me why we can't bust him for that gun he's so bad at hiding?"

"Because then Holmes won't work for us. And in the three years since "A Study in Pink", as Watson called it, they've saved hundreds of lives. Besides, if someone's running around with an illegal firearm, I can't think of a better man to do it."

"Shame about the company he keeps." Sally remarked. "Maybe he's finally realized he's living with a nutter, and Holmes is trying to woo him back."

"Don't want to hear about it, thanks!" Anderson said. "Maybe someone's arrested him. I'll testify in court, if they ask."

"No, that's not it. If we'd arrested Holmes, everyone in the force would know by now." Lestrade said. "All the booking officers know to text me if they see him, anyways."

A terrible thought crossed his mind when he remembered exactly why he had all the booking officers keeping an eye out for his wayward consultant. It had been four years since the last time he'd opened his phone to a message about Sherlock being out of his mind on drugs in the holding cells. Lestrade thought that John had put a stop to all that, but Sherlock had been rather – difficult – of late, and oh, Lestrade wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do something he might regret severely –

"You know what?" Lestrade said. "I think you two can handle the evidence collection. We can't do much until we get their background checks and a report from toxicology, so I'm going to go… check up on some things."

"You're such a generous boss. Letting us do all the fascinating inch-by-inch surveys, while you go drink some boring coffee. How did we get so lucky?" Sally said sarcastically.

"None of your cheek, Donovan." he said, and if he was perhaps a bit more snappish than he ought to have been, well, his mind was elsewhere. "Text me if you find anything interesting."

Lestrade hardly noticed the walk out of the hotel, and it wasn't until he had hailed a cab and was halfway to Baker Street that he had regained the presence of mind to realize that, if Sherlock was out of his mind on heroin, the odds of him being home were slim to none. Still, he had to check, if only for his own peace of mind.

Hastily, he stuffed a wad of bills into the cabbie's outstretched hand, and practically ran over to the door to 221 Baker Street. He fumbled open the door, and dashed up the stairs.

"Holmes!" He called, pounding on the door. "Are you there? Holmes! Open up!"

He pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn't hear any sounds coming from the flat. Cursing under his breath, he patted through his pockets to find the key that John had finally had cut for him after the seventeenth 'drug bust'. Ooh, drug busts, not a good thought-

He finally wrapped his fingers around the little skull on the key ring (was that their idea of a joke?), and stuffed it into the lock. He swung open the door, only to see-

221B Baker Street, looking much as it always did. Perhaps a little messier than usual, although nowhere near as bad as Lestrade knew it could get. There were some half-eaten orders of Chinese food on the table in front of the TV, and some dirty laundry on the couch. But other than that, it was completely normal.

Feeling a little lost, Lestrade wandered over to the kitchen. There was a cup of tea in the bread basket, which was coincidentally the only horizontal surface in the kitchen not covered in a curious brown residue, excluding most of the floor and part of the ceiling. Lestrade knew better than to touch anything in this house, but he leaned in to get a closer look.

"You're probably safe to do that." came Sherlock's voice from about Sherlock's height behind him. "I don't think there are any toxic fumes; or, at least, not anymore."

Lestrade straightened up. He wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock was joking about the toxic fumes thing – you never could tell, with him. Also, he realized that he had just been caught doing what amounted to trespassing in the kitchen of two men who had at least one illegal gun between them. Not that they would use it on him, of course, but it added a certain gravity to the situation.

He turned around, only to be confronted with six feet of consulting detective whose modesty was preserved only by a purple pair of boxer shorts. He couldn't help noting that, although he was still terribly thin, he wasn't exactly a candidate for a "stop starving in the first world" poster campaign anymore.

"It's good to know I won't be killed examining your kitchen, then." Lestrade replied. "What did it start out as?"

"A couple mushrooms. And a ferret. You've established that I'm not strung out on drugs somewhere, now don't you have better things to do than examine my kitchen?"

Lestrade had known Sherlock for far too long to be put off by his deductions. "Why did you say you were too busy for the case, then?"

"Because I was. And I still am, so if you're looking for help, I suggest you look elsewhere. Hopefully very soon. And lock the door behind you."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You don't look busy."

"I am. Terribly so."

"Doing what?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. "I see that I won't be able to be rid of you so easily. I suppose you'll find out one way or another. But honestly, can't you observe?"

"What, am I supposed to know why you're busy just by looking at the stuff on the counter and, and your pants or something? Sherlock, there's a reason I call you in for cases, and it's not because I love watching you bicker with Anderson."

"Don't even mention him. I don't want to think back to today and remember that ferret."

"Sherlock…"

"Lestrade! Do I have to spell everything out for you? Shirts! On the couch! Dinner! Half eaten! And where, exactly, do you think John is?"

Lestrade frowned. Shirts on the couch, John wouldn't stand for that, so either he wasn't home or they must have taken them off… in a hurry. And the dinner was half finished, as if it had been interrupted by something…

His eyes dragged themselves over to focus on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Ah, yes. I knew you'd get there in the end. Now if you don't mind, I think you can see yourself out."

Lestrade paused. He had to admit to himself, he had stopped expecting this about a year and a half ago. Still, he wasn't nearly as surprised as he might have been. Three years of watching flirting at crime scenes will do that to a man.

"Right, okay, sorry. I didn't mean- I'll see myself out." Sherlock stepped out of the way, and Lestrade hurried towards the door. He stopped after opening it, with his hand on the handle. "Oh, and Sherlock?" he said, and he turned back around. Sherlock, still leaning on the kitchen doorframe, met his eyes.

"I'm proud of you."

"Proud?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade could tell that he hadn't been expecting that.

"Yes. I remember the man you were five years ago. If someone had told me back then that he would have a steady job, a flat, and one of the most decent men I've met for a boyfriend, I'm not sure that I would have believed them. But here you are."

It was true. He'd gone from a junkie in the gutter to a, if not respectable, at least contributing member of society. And Lestrade was pretty sure that there wasn't anyone else to tell him that, if John's blog entries on his brother were at all accurate.

"I… thank you, Greg." Sherlock smiled a little, which meant he was smiling a whole lot more on the inside. It was good to remember than even 'sociopaths' needed affirmation sometimes.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning about these murders, then?"

"Yes. Look into their father, you'll want to pull his financials from the past nine months. Oh, and one of them has a daughter. If you can find her, she will be useful."

"Will do. Give John my congratulations."

"Congratulations?"

"Yeah. On not being the most oblivious bloke this side of France."

Sherlock smiled. "No, I think that title is claimed by another mutual acquaintance of ours."

"The one whose name you told me not to mention? Well, you might just be right, and don't you quote me on that. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock. Don't hesitate to spare me the details on whatever you do after I leave."

Lestrade shut the door behind him, and went down the stairs two at a time. Maybe he would never stop being worried for Sherlock Holmes. But at least now he knew he wasn't the only one looking out for him.

As he rode his cab back to the Yard, he wondered what sort of gift would be appropriate. Maybe a fresh cadaver? Or a gift basket full of limbs? Yes, they proably would like that.

He made a mental note to talk to Molly the next time he saw her. She could probably put something together.


	9. Receptionists

**A/N: Two for the price of one, boys and girls! Actually, it was supposed to only be about Violet, but the Rosa bit grew a little larger than I'd expected. Still, I'd feel self-indulgent splitting it into two chapters, so you folks just get this one larger one to read. Enjoy.**

Rosa Allen was, in John's opinion, the perfect receptionist. With her impressive dreadlocks and no-nonsense demeanor, she could make even the most hysterical hypochondriac sit quietly in the waiting room. Her filing system was the most organized thing John had ever seen, even in the army. And most importantly, she got on quite well with Sherlock.

When John had first (not-so-casually) mentioned his boyfriend to Rosa, she hadn't batted an eyelash. When she first met him, she seemed slightly taken aback, but that was only because he was tugging on John's sleeve, and trying to persuade him to go see some 'intriguingly delightful' corpses. Sherlock's words, not John's.

Despite that atypical introduction, they took an immediate liking to one another. When Sherlock dropped by the clinic to drag John off to god only knew where, he always brought her a medium latte with a shot of hazelnut. In return, she had begun emailing him John's schedules so he could show up right at the ends of shifts to drag his boyfriend away. When John's appointments occasionally ran long, he would dash out of his office afterwards, expecting to find a bored Sherlock destroying something. But after a while, more often than not he would find Sherlock and Rosa having a perfectly sedate conversation about the viscosity of various brands of liquid paper.

It was when he found them making plans to go a violin concert together that he knew Rosa was going to be a permanent fixture in their lives. It was closing time, and he and Sarah stood by the door, waiting for either of them to acknowledge their presence so they could go their separate ways. But the two music enthusiasts pointedly ignored the doctors, busy discussing the relative merits of Vivaldi and Handel as they were.

"You know, I think that's the first person I've ever actually seen him acknowledge, besides you." Sarah said, not bothering to lower her voice. "Are you worried?"

John laughed. "Not at all. Look, they've pulled up my schedule to make sure I'm free to suffer through hours of music on whichever night they pick."

"I highly doubt you'll suffer, John." said Sherlock, his back to them. "Gregor Finch is supposedly a virtuoso. Even your untrained ears will be able to appreciate his genius, I think."

"Well, why do we need to bother going out?" John asked, rolling his eyes at Sarah. "Why doesn't Rosa just come over to ours, and you can give her a violin concerto of her very own? It seems a waste that I'm the only one who hears your music."

John expected _someone_ to respond with a cutting remark, but no one did. Sherlock was staring at Rosa intensely, and she seemed a bit taken aback.

"Would you be interested?"

"Yes, of course!" she said eagerly.

"Well, that's settled." Sarah said quickly. "John, if you're going to be waiting for Rosa anyways, you can close out the records for the night. I'm going home to my nice warm bed."

John caught her arm just before she slipped out the door. "You are an evil, evil woman." he whispered.

She grinned. "Take it as payback for you dumping me."

"That was two years ago!"

"I'm very patient." she said as she pulled her arm away and slipped out the door. "See you tomorrow."

He looked back to Rosa and Sherlock. They were discussing whether or not the three of them should go out for Chinese before they retired to 221B. Resigned to having his input completely ignored, John sat down in one of the visitor's chairs, and opened his briefcase. Rosa still had to finish up the day's paperwork, and that would take a half-hour at least, if he was any judge. Probably longer, with Sherlock being his distracting self. Maybe now John could finally catch up on his reading. He pulled out his new Stephen Fry mystery, and settled in to wait.

From then on, Wednesday nights became music night. John would close down the clinic, and then he and Rosa would cab it back to Baker Street. Sherlock usually had food waiting for them, even if it was just takeaway. Sometimes they would eat, sometimes they would chat, and sometimes they would all watch some crap telly. But the night always ended with Sherlock pulling out his violin, and performing for his friends.

It was a comfortable routine, and one of the few John had been able to instill in their lives. Having a friend was good for Sherlock, and it was nice to be on good terms with the people he worked with. John began to spend more time with her, finding that they shared a dark sense of humour and a secret passion for writing. He missed having friends that he saw all the time, but the army had distanced him so far from his former life that he had lost touch with them. Rosa fit into his life, and filled a hole he hadn't even realized was there. He suspected Sherlock felt the same, although he wouldn't (couldn't?) put it into words.

But enough about Rosa. A few years into their continued acquaintance, Rosa decided that she didn't want to wait for a man (well, an unattached, straight man) to walk into her life before she started a family. And it wasn't like they were just going to stop seeing her, (in fact, they were probably going to be recruited as the most unlikely babysitters of all time), but John was going to miss her presence at his workplace.

So it was with some trepidation that John headed to work on the first day of her maternity leave. He didn't know anything about the new receptionist besides her name, Violet Sato. He supposed he could have asked Sherlock, but if the new girl was wanted for murder in Croatia or something, John didn't really want to know.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Sarah would not hire anyone incompetent. SH_

John smiled at Sherlock's awkward reassurance. Sherlock was probably glad that Rosa was off work, so he could bother her when John was busy. But he knew John would prefer to have their friend with him, and so he tried.

_Thanks, 'Lock. I'm sure everything will be fine._

Almost sure, anyways. It was just- Rosa had been working at the clinic for years, since before John was hired. And the clinic was one of the few spots of normality in his mad life. He didn't really want to have to get used to the change.

No, he was being silly. He would make a point to be friendly with this Miss Sato, if only to prove to himself that he could.

John stowed his phone in his pocket, and entered the clinic. A tiny Asian woman in her mid-to-late twenties was sitting in the desk that he would always think of a Rosa's, typing very quickly on her computer. John approached her desk, and after a brief pause, she tore her eyes away from the computer screen.

"D'you have an appointment?" she asked in a rather clipped tone.

"Er, no. Actually, I'm-"

"We do accept walk-ins, sir. Are you a client of this practice?"

"Not as such. See, I'm-"

"We can still see to you, sir, but I'm afraid you'll have to fill out some paperwork first."

She handed him a sheaf of papers, and he wordlessly took them.

"Morning, John."

Sarah walked into the reception area, folding up her coat as she walked. "Making friends with Miss Sato?"

John held up the papers, trying to keep from laughing. "Apparently I've got some paperwork to do, Sarah." he said, deadpan. "Because I'm not a regular client, you see."

Sarah smothered her laugh in her hand. "Oh dear, that could be a problem. Miss Sato, I don't believe you two have been introduced. This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson."

The diminutive woman turned a bright red. "I… er… sorry, Doctor."

"It's fine." John said, grinning. "You're just a bit _too_ efficient, is all. Not a bad problem, as problems go."

She smiled tentatively. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. I tend to get a bit ahead of myself."

"Not a problem." he said. "Now, what've you got lined up for me today?"

oOo

John glanced over his schedule, and realized that his next patient wasn't due to come in for and other twenty minutes. Just enough time to catch a quick cuppa with Rosa, and- wait.

Well, now was a good a time as any to make the acquaintance of the woman he'd have to work with for the next few months. He left his office, and stood leaning against her desk until she noticed him.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Watson." Violet said, upon looking up from her screen. "Is everything all right?"

"Just wonderful. Are you figuring everything out all right? I know Rosa ran a tight ship, but if there's anything you need help with…"

"Oh, no. I'm fine." Violet said. She looked around the waiting room, which was empty but for a single old man snoring softly in the corner. (Robert Page, a regular. Kidney cancer.) "Actually, there hasn't been much for me to do at all. I've been stuck watching the news, most of the morning."

She gestured up to the decrepit television set that was up on a shelf by the door. Muted and closed captioned, John didn't think he'd ever seen it turned off.

A parade of brightly dressed people strode across the screen. He'd forgotten the pride parade was today. Harry went in for that sort of thing, though, so she'd probably be there, representing the Watsons. He was a bit too old now to start with the whole flamboyance bit, but maybe he ought to go out on his lunch, just to support. It gets better, and all that.

He watched Violet watching the TV, and she made a face. "My mum told me that was happening today." she said. "Do they have to shove it in our faces like that?"

"I'm sorry?" John asked. Ah, well. So much for making friends with the receptionist.

"I dunno. I just… yeah, they can be gay, but do they have to do it in public? It's kind of gross."

John opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Look, send me in Mr. Page." he said. "I can see him right now, and he'll be wanting to get home to his wife."

"You got it, Doctor!" Violet said brightly, and didn't it always surprise him how such nice people can say such terrible things?

oOo

_Sherlock. Have a case for you._

"Morning, Rob. How are you this morning?"

_You are at the clinic. What sort of case. SH_

"Today'll be a good day, I think, doc. My hip wa'nt too bad this morn'n."

_Need you to bring me lunch._

"Well, I'll just refill your prescription, and we'll see you again next Saturday?"

_why. SH_

_oh I see. SH_

"Cheers, doc."

_your break is at twelve, I'll fetch you then. SH_

oOo

Ten to twelve was two hours at most, and yet it had felt to John as if it had been several lifetimes. He hadn't seen an hour stretch so far since the last time he was kidnapped. But he had finally shooed the last hypochondriac out of his office, and he felt his hour-long lunch was very well earned.

Pushing his way out into reception was much more difficult than it had been several hours ago. Snotty children ran amok underfoot, while harried mothers chased after them. John neatly sidestepped a particularly infectious-looking five year old, and stepped over a discomfited teenager's legs to reach Ros- to reach Violet's desk.

Sherlock was already there, of course. Violet was smiling at him, wide-eyed and obviously flirtatious. Sherlock was smiling back, although John recognized this as his false smile, used most often to get things out of people who did not know him.

Sherlock noticed John approaching first, of course, and he grinned at him. A real grin, this time.

"Sherlock, you've got confetti in your hair." John said.

"I do? Well, there was quite a to-do in the street, I'm surprised confetti is the only thing I've got."

Sherlock bent down, and John picked the brightly-coloured particles off his head.

"I suppose you've met Sherlock, then?" John said to Violet.

"Yes, I suppose I have." she said. "You're friends, I take it?"

Sherlock straightened up. "Oh, aren't you clever. Obviously we're not just friends, you would know that if you simply observed."

Violet looked confused, and John took pity on her. He found himself taking pity on people quite a lot, when they first met Sherlock. And sometimes for quite a long time after that.

"He's my partner." He said, to Violet.

"Oh, don't be so coy, John." Sherlock said. "I'm his husband, if you must know."

"Husband?" she said, in a rather high pitched voice.

"Yes, and if you'd taken the time to read his file, or do your job, you would know that already. I'm disappointed in Sarah's hiring skills, and I rescind my earlier statement about her not hiring anyone incompetent."

"I'll see you in an hour, then, Violet?" John said.

"I… uh… yeah." she said. Sherlock, apparently taking this for a dismissal, grabbed John's hand, and half dragged, half led him out of the clinic.

"When did we get married, then?" John asked him in the elevator.

"We didn't. That was for dramatic effect."

"Well, good. I'm glad you didn't get us hitched when my back was turned, I'd be quite put out."

"Does that seem like something I'm likely to do?"

John didn't dignify that with a response.

oOo

An hour later, on the dot, John slipped back into the clinic. The morning rush had been and gone, for which he was thankful. The chair in the corner was occupied by a teenage couple, the girl's swollen ankle propped on the boy's knee, but other than that the reception was deserted.

"I'm back." John said. Violet looked up from her computer, and cringed.

"Doctor." she said.

"I guess the rush is gone, eh?"

"Yeah." she said. Her eyes flitted around the room, as if searching for something to stare at, anything that wasn't the man before her.

"Look." John began, having thought out what he was going to say on the elevator ride up. "I don't want this to be awkward. We're going to have to work with each other for the next few months."

She laughed softly. "I really put my foot in it, didn't I."

He smiled. "Yeah, you did."

"I- I'm sorry."

"It's all right. You weren't thinking." he said kindly. "But you also need to realize that you don't want to be going around saying things like that. Not everyone is as sure of themselves as I am, and you could really hurt someone."

She nodded. "I guess I just wasn't thinking."

"And you also need to realize that not everyone is as easygoing as I am. God only knows what Sherlock would have said, if it had been him you were talking to."

She looked up, startled. "Is he- did I- God, I'm an idiot."

"Cheer up." John said. "Everyone's got something to learn. What say we go out for drinks, after work?"

She nodded. "I'd like that. And I really am sorry."

"Later, then. I'm off to earn my wage."

John headed off to the kitchen, to make himself a cuppa before dealing with the injured teens. Sarah was already there, sipping at a cup of Earl Grey.

"So?" she asked him. "What did I tell you? Is Sato good, or is she good?"

John stared at her for a minute, and then burst out laughing.


End file.
